


ripped at every edge (but you're a masterpiece)

by falloutangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 17:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15890820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falloutangel/pseuds/falloutangel
Summary: The one where Sam suggests art therapy as a positive coping mechanism for Cas.





	ripped at every edge (but you're a masterpiece)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This started as just the end part as a self indulgent drabble and turned into a hurt/comfort recovery fic feat. fallen!human!cas. Also destiel inevitably snuck in there. And this was supposed to be a gen fic. :’) Idk what happened. Also the POV kinda skips around, so sorry if that’s confusing.
> 
> I don't write or read for supernatural anymore, but I discovered this buried in my google drive and thought I should at least set it free. It's really messy and not edited very carefully, but maybe someone will like it.

Castiel suddenly finds himself at the Bunker door. He doesn’t know how long he walked or how much time had passed. His feet are in agony, he’s bleeding, he hasn’t been able to feel his hands for hours, the ringing in his ears won’t stop, and his wings are gone, but he made it. 

He uses his last push of strength to knock on the door before he falls into black.

 

. . .

 

Sam finds a crumpled figure in an oh so familiar trench coat on their front door and nearly cries in relief.

. . .

 

Cas doesn't say anything on the first day. He just lays motionless on the bed that Sam carried him to, staring blankly ahead. He moves like a doll, letting them maneuver him around, but he doesn’t talk. The only sound he makes are small whimpers when Sam sterilizes the wounds. Dean swallows thickly as he cleans the dried blood from his best friend and stitches up the two long, grotesque cuts on his back. 

“I think he’s in shock,” Sam tells to him when they leave Cas to rest. 

. . .

 

The silence is what scares Cas the most. At the same time his senses are being overloaded with new emotion and feelings, yet there is a deafening silence stuck in his head. He head had always been full of voices of his brothers and sisters, he had felt their power and his in his fingertips ard now- 

Silence. Emptiness. 

 

. . .

 

“Cas, you need to eat.” Dean says, shoving a plate of toast in front of him. His tone suggests that this is not a discussion.

Castiel stares at the toast, but feels no motivation to do as Dean says. “Not hungry,” he mumbles, looking away. 

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean snaps, slamming a hand down on the table, causing the newly fallen angel to jump. “You need to eat. Humans” -Castiel winces as the emphasized word- “need to eat.” He stares down his best friend.

When Cas makes no move for the plate, Dean takes a step back and a bitter smile twists his lips. “Well, screw you, Cas.” Dean shoves his chair violently aside as he exits. Leaving a tense silence in the main room. 

Sam swallows and carefully approaches his friend, he pulls out the chair next to the ex-angel. “Cas… It’s been three days.” He so tries to be gentler than Dean, but his desperation is showing in his voice. “Please. We’re scared. Dean’s scared.”

Castiel’s pained eyes meet his and he swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry,” he says, pushing the plate even closer. “Just please eat something.”

Cas’s eyes return to the abandoned toast and stare. Relief floods Sam when bony fingers finally reach out take the plate. Cas gets up and retreats retreats back to his room. 

Small victories, Sam reminds himself, putting his face in his hands.

(He finds the plate untouched a day later in Cas’s room)

 

. . . 

 

Dean asks if nightmares keep him up, noticing the dark bags under his eyes. 

Castiel wishes he had the voice to say that he dreams of freedom and flight, and the problem isn’t the sleeping. It’s the waking up. Cas dreams of burning wings and bright lights and infinities that the human brain can’t even begin to process, only to wake up in a dark room as a prisoner in his own body. Some mornings he’ll wake up and turn over to stretch his wings and- 

He comes to the conclusion that if you don’t sleep then you don’t need to wake up. 

He tells Dean that it’s nightmares. Dean makes him more toast.

 

. . .

 

One morning, when Castiel is eating breakfast - even though Dean says that just pushing the food around the plate doesn’t count as ‘eating’ - Sam presents him with some art supplies: a sketchbook, some pencils, and a paint set. “Art therapy,” Sam explains. He’d read about it in an article and thought it could be good fit for Cas. 

Sam apologizes for not knowing what to purchase, but Castiel shakes his head, spreading out the things that Sam had brought in front of him. 

That afternoon was the first time genuinely laughs as a human -- giggling as Sam frantically tries to get a giant streak of acrylic paint from his hair while cursing at Dean who is trying to explain how he “misaimed his splatter paint”. 

Sam hugs Cas later saying that it was good to see him smile, even if his hair had to suffer for it. Castiel thanks him and then quietly explains to him that it was a way to keep things he wanted to remember, pulling Sam over to see his painting of Dean’s green eyes and Sam’s smile. (The actual smile on Sam’s face seems to wobble for a moment when he tells him that.)

 

. . . 

 

Castiel paints. He paints until he understands the different brushes, strokes, and colors. It passes time, and gloriously takes his mind away from his thoughts. 

Sam patiently retrieves any item Castiel adds to the supply list from the craft store, even though it’s an hour drive from the bunker.

“Cas, it’s fine,” Sam assures him when he feels guilty about the inconvenience. “I don’t mind at all. And I love seeing your paintings.” Sam smiles and Castiel believes him.

 

. . .

 

Cas paints birds. Lots of birds. And he tries to ignore the pain in his chest as he paints giant, powerful wings and beautiful, colored feathers. 

(Castiel now dreams of graceful black wings and lightning. On a completely unrelated note, an unfinished painting of a raven ends up shoved roughly under his bed.)

Sam says he likes the cardinals the best and Cas appreciates that he doesn’t ask him to talk about it when he stops painting birds.

 

. . .

 

Cas paints a meadow filled with flowers and bumblebees. Sam is pretty sure it’s what Cas’s soul looks like.

 

. . .

 

Dean has also taken very well to his new hobby. Once he had moved on from the initial teasing, (asking if Castiel could go ‘classical’ and paint him pictures of nude women) he comes to some kind of understanding. 

Dean proudly displays Castiel’s rendition of the Impala driving off into the sunset on the wall of the main room, joking around to Sam that they're acting like proud parents hanging up their kid’s art on the fridge. “What can we say, we are proud of him,” is all that Sam says, and ruffles Cas’ hair when he ducks his head, blushing. 

 

. . .

 

That night Castiel eats half a plate of toast and falls asleep on Sam’s shoulder during movie night.

 

. . .

 

(There are rare, quiet days when Dean will ask if he could watch Castiel paint and Castiel will nod self consciously. But soon both are sucked into a trance where time hardly seems to pass and their legs delicately brush against each other. Dean puts on music and Castiel listens to him hum while his brush slides purposely against his canvas. These are the good days.)

 

. . .

 

A day before they head out on their first hunt since the Fall, Cas and Dean make a trip to a local tattoo shop. When they get their consultation with the tattoo artist, Dean pulls down the collar of his shirt and shows her the design. 

The tattoo artist - Elizabeth - tells them that they’re super cute for getting matching tattoos and Dean doesn’t bother trying to correct her. Instead he holds Cas’s hand and tells him to squeeze when it hurts too much. 

 

. . .

 

Day by day, canvases pile up in Cas’s room and his sketchbook slowly fills while he rides in the backseat of the impala.

He’ll never forget the laughter on Dean’s face when he shows him the sketch of Sam as a moose and then the immediate betrayal when he filled to the next page only to find him as a squirrel. 

(Castiel draws both expressions the next day just to be safe.)

 

. . .

 

Dean smiles when Castiel sketches and even grins when Castiel paints him something.

But he fucking dances when Cas stumbles grumpily out of his room and asks him what he’s making for breakfast.

 

. . .

 

Sitting on top of the Impala one night, while Sam sleeps in the backseat, Dean asks to see the rest of Cas’s sketchbook. They flip through the various pages and Cas blushes when Dean points out that most of the sketches are of him.

“You never used to do that,” Dean comments, green eyes sparkling. (Cas thinks he detects some smirking in his smile.)

“What?” he asks, bewildered to why his chest feels tight and why his heart is beating so fast.

“Blush,” Dean teases. (-and yes that’s definitely a smirk.)

Castiel curses human biology when that only makes him blush harder, so he looks down embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he says, unsure of what to do about his predicament. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

“Nah, don’t be sorry, Cas.” Dean’s arm goes around his shoulder and Cas’s chest constricts further. Dean leans closer to his ear and whispers, “It’s actually pretty cute,” and presses a small kiss on Cas’s cheek.

Now, Castiel’s face is burning red, but he can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. He leans his head on Dean’s shoulder and he feels like he was flying again. 

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean asks, concerned when his breathing quickens and something stings at his eyes.

“Fine,” Cas smiles and smiles. “It just feels like flying again.”

 

. . . 

 

On the road to Minneapolis, Sam fucking giggles as Cas tries to explain the discovery of nail polish to Dean after a pitstop in a convenience store. “It’s paint for your nails, Dean! Why wasn’t I informed of this before?” 

“Because, Cas, that shit’s for little gi-” Sam kicks Dean in the shin and tells Cas that his pastel yellow fingernails look every nice. Castiel smiles and Dean forgets what he was going to say and smiles back.

 

. . .

 

(It all changes the night Cas finds Dean looking at the unfinished raven, fished out from under his bed. Cas stands frozen and a lump builds in his throat. “I miss my wings,” he confesses and Dean looks up the at the figure in the doorway. 

He puts down the painting and pulls Castiel into a hug. He whispers, “I’m sorry,” into his ear and Cas cries for the first time that night.)

 

. . .

 

(The next morning he has a another first.)

. . . 

 

Life in the Bunker continues on normally (Whatever kind of fucked up normal they live with). 

They go on hunts, Cas steals their clothes like it’s his mission and Dean pretends to be annoyed. They learn how to be human together. Dean would have originally said that they were teaching Cas, but now he’s not so sure anymore. Then he realizes that even before the Fall, Cas had always been the most human of them all. 

Dean accidentally calls him “babe” in front of Sam and he has to deal with a fangirling moose for about a week and a half. Crowley yells “called it!” from the dungeon and Dean reminds himself to throw holy water at him later.

 

. . .

 

Cas goes back to the tattoo shop alone with a sketch of two large black wings. He hesitates before going inside and asking for Elizabeth. 

 

. . .

 

In the middle of the night, Castiel wakes up sweating and tangled in sheets. Dean grumbles next to him and Castiel pushes away his clinging arms. His hands are shaking and he looks at the blank wall in his room and immediately knows it needs to change. 

So Castiel paints.

He smears together color on color, desperately trying to find the picture he’s looking for in the blended mess. Layer by layer, he gets closer. Paint flecks cover his hands and his (Dean’s) shirt. 

(He has his own clothes now, but they don’t smell right.) 

He doesn’t leave his room much, only for necessities. This is too important. He can’t forget this. This is something that he needs to remember. He has learned in his short time that being human… it means forgetting things. Little things that he always thought would be with him. So he needs to document this, he won’t forget this. 

So he paints, and mixes, and paints some more, and waits for it to dry. 

Repeat. Repeat. 

Until… he has it. 

He nearly cries to relief staring at his finished product. Yes, this… this is what he’d been searching for. 

Castiel puts down the paintbrush into his water cup and just stares. He can almost feel the light that he used to be underneath his boney fingers. 

He timidly ventures out of his room and pads to the library to find Sam and Dean. The sleeves of Sam’s long sleeve fall from their place where they scrunched up by his elbows past his hands and he clenches at the fabric nervously. 

Sam is diligently hunched over a pile of old documents with his laptop gently lighting his face and Dean is predictably passed out in an armchair. Sam looks up at him and smiles and Castiel quietly tells him that he’s finished. 

“Can we see?” Sam asks, his eyes lighting up. 

Castiel gives him a shy smile and nods. 

Sam shoves Dean awake and they follow Castiel down the hall to his room, Dean grumbling about his rude awakening. “Sammy, all I was asking for was like an hour or so this couldn’t have waited-- holy shit balls.” Dean whispered, eyes wide and now fully awake as he stared at Castiel’s work. 

The painting took up the entire wall, from floor to ceiling, and the colors. They swirled around each other like a galaxy, mixing and interchanging. 

“Cas… this is just… Wow,” Sam said, mouth gaping. A silence falls as they stare it. 

“What is it supposed to be, exactly?” Dean asks, earning an elbow from Sam. 

Castiel smiles at his friends family, then looked back at the painting. 

“A self portrait.”

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://abraxasjin.tumblr.com/post/177715279112) is kind of what I imagined the painting at the end to look like, but you can also use your imagination.
> 
> The bird paintings are somewhat inspired by Lindsey Kustusch if you want a visual on those as well.


End file.
